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Chapter Text

Giyuu hastily thought of a way to stop the bleeding from the deep cut that was a result of a demon lunging at him just before he cut its head off.

That was stupid, he stated like a mantra in his mind. He realized the circumstance he currently faces was a result of his inability to stay in focus during the entire battle. 

Before the encounter, he was already suffering through a fever, Kochou would surely scold him this time, but he ventured against death once more with nothing but a wide gash on his stomach. He guessed fighting while being dizzy in a dense forest against a demon who could swing from tree to tree was a very bad stroke of luck.

Gritting his teeth in slight frustration, he thought of tearing a small portion from his haori in order to place enough pressure on his wound to slow the bleeding perhaps, but he fought away the urge to do so. 

He couldn't possibly do that to the only memento he had of both his beloved sister and irreplaceable friend.

Wincing at the pain when he forced himself to stand up, Giyuu used his sword as a cane in order to stand upright. As upright as he as could given the situation. If anyone he knew would see him in this state, they would either panic in worry or laugh at his idiocy. 

The demon he fought wasn't even a moon, yet he was messed up in this way. His thoughts dangerously drifted off to a dim reminder that he really was good for nothing. Undeserving of the title of being the Water Pillar.

Pushing away those thoughts, Giyuu lets out a deep sigh, which he instantly regretted due to the pain reverberating throughout his body even more. 

He wished Kanzaburou had flown back to the headquarters to ask for help. Though Giyuu was more concerned of his crow forgetting its way back and getting in some sort of danger than anything. His crow was old, and that worried Giyuu to an intensity that would be funny if he wasn't close to losing consciousness right now.

Dragging his feet one step at a time, Giyuu started walking forwards, he knew there would be a Wisteria House a few kilometers away. There's no question that one exists. The bigger question was if he could reach there in time before he collapses.

*

“Is this fine?” Michikatsu asked the elderly man who had been meticulously scrutinizing the way he placed the carefully-handcrafted pot of soil with a single flowering plant in it. 

The said elderly man narrowed his eyes once more, tilting his head to different angles in hopes of checking if he approved of the positioning of the new addition to his small garden. 

He then smiled brightly, placing both hands on his own hips, “Thanks for the help again today, Young Michikatsu!”

Michikatsu merely nodded, mentally ignoring the fact that he was way older than this man, but at the same time, feeling a swarm of a bit of pride that he once again had an eventful day going around town and helping people with any job, no matter how trivial or odd it was that they might task him with. 

The old man was giving him some money, but Michikatsu only stared at the small amount of money above calloused hands, he knew the old man didn't have much, not that he judged him, it's just that he himself didn't need money anyway.

Michikatsu looked up to meet the gaze of the old man, gently pushing the offer back. 

“No need.” He muttered, the old man seemed nowhere near surprised, as evidenced by him sighing instead. 

“You won't have much if you keep on helping the people of this town and not taking any in return.” 

Michikatsu shook his head briefly, “It's fine.”

“Well, if you insist, wait here.” The old man immediately gestured for him to not leave for a while, and then quickly went inside his house. 

Michikatsu momentarily stared at the retreating back of the old man, before looking up at the night sky.

It was surprisingly dark tonight, with only a few stars and the moon present to chase away the darkness of the night.

Michikatsu briefly closed his eyes, feeling the cold gush of wind hitting his skin. 

Ever since quitting the ranks of Upper Moons almost more than 100 years ago after a careful deliberation of his desire to change course, Michikatsu had dedicated his time in blending back into society, bearing his human appearance and his human name

Defecting was easy, but it wasn't hard to lay low either.

It was a bit comical, the former second strongest demon who used to strike fear on demons and humans alike, who had killed and claimed thousands of lives in his centuries of living, now merely goes around small towns he had burrowed himself into, helping countless people with their daily concerns and labor. 

His thoughts wandered to his old comrades. Douma, Akaza, it had been a century. Were they still hunting him? Was Muzan looking for him? Although he had successfully cut his connection with the progenitor of demons and that he no longer had his influence, his peaceful life wasn't guaranteed just yet. 

In fact, it might never ever be guaranteed. The thought alone weighed down on him. But perhaps, his death would finally be the ultimate price for all his crimes and his sins.

His attention was brought back when the elderly man’s footsteps echoed in his ears.

Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of the human thrusting his hand forward to give him a neatly wrapped bento. 

Michikatsu turned his gaze to the human, inquiry present in his features.

“Take it.” The human graciously offered, “My daughter brought a lot earlier. You must be starving. Just take this for me, alright?”

Michikatsu wanted to say no, he didn't need this kind of sustenance, anyway. But the human’s eager smile gave him the idea that taking it would be far quicker than arguing over not taking it.

“Thank you.” He uttered in a monotone manner and took the package in his hand before bidding the elder man farewell.

Comical, funny. 

The former second strongest demon, expressing gratitude to a mere human that he could easily kill without so much of a trouble. Yet instead of those thoughts, his mind was only filled with the thought of finding someone who might enjoy this meal.

Walking towards the forest, Michikatsu briefly caught a whiff of fresh blood. He knew it wasn't from a blood of an injured animal.

Rather, it was coming from a human.

Tracking the odor was easy, he walked with practiced calmness but the urgency of his movements was obvious.

Taking the trail on his left, Michikatsu laid his eyes upon a human who was struggling to even move another step. He observed it wasn't a normal human, but a demon slayer.

A Hashira, to boot. Though it's easily perceived that he was heavily injured.

Before he could act however, the Hashira seemingly sensed his presence and immediately turned his gaze towards him, hand on the hilt of his nichirin sword just as quickly, his stance on defense, yet ready to attack any time.

Michikatsu immediately raised a hand, which didn't help at all. The Hashira visibly tensed, as if expecting an attack. He doesn't blame him, after all, no matter how hard he masked his presence as a demon, any trained pillar would notice he wasn't human. 

“Calm down…” Michikatsu muttered. 

The Hashira narrowed his eyes on him, and Michikatsu paused to take in the other’s appearance. 

Standing a few meters away was a man so beautiful that had him in extreme awe and admiration. The Hashira had ebony black hair that was begrudgingly kept in a low-effort ponytail. Some of his bangs were sticking to his face due to sweat, but he still looked so ethereal with the way his porcelain looking skin looked under the moonlight. His eyes reflected the vast ocean, a certain air of solemnity in them, yet pretty nonetheless. His slightly opened mouth showcasing his pink plump lips. 

Michikatsu was beyond belief that there was a human so beautiful. 

He couldn't remember a time when he had seen anyone who struck him like this, not even his human wife, whose face he had long forgotten and buried away deep in his memories.

The Hashira spoke, bringing Michikatsu away from his thoughts.

“Why are you here? You're not human… Quit being in disguise, demon!”

“You are.. heavily injured… the wound in your stomach would not clot on his own, I'm well aware you know that you need immediate.. medical attention.”

The Hashira seemed clearly taken aback by his display of concern. His beautiful blue eyes reflecting confusion for a bit, before it was schooled back to mirror hatred and cautiousness.

“Don't try to trick me.”

Michikatsu sighed deeply, there was no way he could deny it anymore. 

Still, he wanted to let the Hashira know that he was harmless, and that he only wished for him to be looked at by a doctor. He knew another doctor, and although that doctor was also a demon, he knew that doctor is a kind one who would never harm a human for the sole reason that she had broken free of Muzan’s hold as well.

But the human persisted in his resistance to listen to him, blue eyes flickering towards the sword on his hips. 

Not knowing what else to do, Michikatsu brought his sword still in its sheath and brought it down, kicking it far away, much to the Hashira’s added confusion marred in his pretty face.

Michikatsu then instead thrusted his hand forward, the bento the old man gave earlier was hanging between his fingers. The Hashira narrowed his gaze once more, then his eyes widened upon the realization that it was just a bento. 

Michikatsu definitely didn't know how it would help his case, but the long, awkward silence he was so used to ironically felt like a millennium this time.

The Hashira seemed nowhere amused, and instead rushed forward to him, wielding his sword with experience reflecting his movements, but before the sword could hit him, the human collapsed, with Michikatsu barely having time to catch him with his. hands but he did. 

Supporting the Pillar with one hand wrapped protectively on the former’s back, and the other letting go of the bento and instead finding its way to touch the side of Hashira’s face, Michikatsu regained his balance easily without so much of a stagger.

Upon one touch, Michikatsu felt the Hashira was burning with fever, his eyebrows furrowed in a way that showed he was in extreme pain, his flushed face, warm skin and labored breathing.

Uncharacteristic concern filled him to the brim. Michikatsu knew he had to take him to Tamayo, at least before the sun rises. 

Glancing at the fallen bento, Michikatsu skillfully shifted himself to grab it. 

Tamayo may be a kind demon who doesn't eat humans, but he still doubted she had anything readily prepared for a human. 

Briefly locating where he should be heading, Michikatsu didn't forget the Hashira's nichirin blade as well as his own, and then he started walking towards his aimed rendezvous.

Chapter Text

The knock he gave the wooden frame of Tamayo’s residence was quiet, almost tentative—strange, for one who had once commanded the earth to tremble with his blade.

Michikatsu shifted his hold on the unconscious Hashira in his arms. The young man’s fevered skin burned against his chest, his breath shallow, his pulse uneven. Michikatsu could hear each faltering thud of the human’s heart; each irregular beat only deepened the weight in his chest.

For a moment, silence. Then the sound of hurried footsteps from within. 

The door slid open, and there stood a young man whose sharp eyes widened the instant they fell upon Michikatsu. His pupils contracted, his lips curling back with hostility.

“You—!” he hissed, already stepping forward. “How dare you come here—”

Before he could finish, Michikatsu inclined his head stiffly, as though bowing despite the fact he still carried an unconscious man in his arms. His voice was calm, though it carried the rough timbre of a man unused to speaking more than necessary.

“I come not in hostility. This human… requires healing.”

The words hung in the night air.

Yushiro’s face contorted, disbelief and fury colliding. “Do you take me for a fool? Carrying a Hashira into our home—what trick are you playing?!”

Before his indignation could gather into violence, another voice—soft, but firm—stilled him.

“Yushiro.”

Tamayo appeared from within the lantern glow, her delicate face composed, though her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her. Her gaze lingered on the other demon’s face, recognition flickering there—recognition, and unease.

“Michikatsu Tsugikuni,” she said quietly. “I had wondered… if the rumors were true.”

Michikatsu stiffened, but said nothing, lowering his head slightly in acknowledgment.

When Tamayo’s eyes fell to the man in his arms, however, her expression shifted instantly into something warmer—something alarmed, with concern overriding everything else.

“The Water Hashira,” she murmured, stepping closer, placing a gentle touch against his forehead. “He’s burning with fever…” She turned quickly, her voice sharp with urgency. “Yushiro. Help me bring him inside. Now.”

“What?!” Yushiro snapped, incredulous. “Tamayo-sama, this is madness! It's him! The monster who stood beside Muzan! He's dangerous! We can’t just—”

“Yushiro.” Tamayo utters once again, more firmly. “If we turn him away now, the human will die.”

Yushiro froze, jaw clenched, fists trembling. His glare at Michikatsu could have pierced stone, but grudgingly he moved aside.

“Don’t think for a second I trust you. You try anything, and you're dead.”

Michikatsu merely inclined his head again, oddly formal. “That is… wise.”

It was the strangest admission Yushiro had ever heard. He blinked at the bizarre response, thrown off balance, but Tamayo swept forward, ushering them in.

*

Inside, the lantern light cast soft amber over the small room where Giyuu had been gently laid down, his sword placed within his reach. Michikatsu had done so deliberately, though he doubted the human noticed in his state.

Tamayo busied herself with poultices and herbs, Yushiro fuming in the corner but assisting nonetheless, while Michikatsu sat near the futon with the stiff posture of a man on trial. His hands rested on his knees, his human disguise flickering faintly in the lamplight, betraying hints of something otherworldly beneath.

His gaze lingered, not on the other demons, but on the slumbering Hashira.

He studied the human’s pallor, the furrow in his brow even in unconsciousness, the faint tremor in his fingers as though his body still fought unseen battles. A pillar, Michikatsu thought grimly, yet still only human. Fragile. Mortal.

The thought twisted in his chest. How many such faces had he watched crumble beneath his blade a century ago? How many men like this had he denied a chance to awaken again?

Why did I save him? he asked himself in silence.

The answer came easily, though he did not like it. Because death no longer sat right with him. Because he could not bear another body in his arms that grew colder with each passing moment.

When Giyuu finally stirred, his lashes heavy and his body aching, his blurred vision slowly focused. The first thing he saw was a broad figure sitting unnervingly close, unmoving but watchful.

The demon.

Giyuu’s breath hitched, and in an instant, his hand darted weakly toward the sword at his side.

Michikatsu didn’t move. He didn’t even tense. He kept his gaze steady, his hands motionless on his knees, though inwardly, tension stirred. Not fear for himself—no. Fear that if the human’s wounds split open again, he might lose him despite Tamayo’s care.

He only inclined his head slightly, his voice low, steady, almost… awkward.

“You are awake.”

Giyuu’s fingers trembled around the hilt, his fevered mind caught between instinct and exhaustion. The demon sat there, calm, patient. The Water Pillar’s breath faltered, suspicion flashing in his tired eyes.

“…Why,” Giyuu rasped, his voice cracking.

Michikatsu blinked, as though he had rehearsed this conversation countless times but now found the words oddly clumsy in reality. “…Because you required help.”

The silence stretched.

“If I had not,” Michikatsu added, almost too logically, “the doctor informed me you would have perished. Either in the forest… or from your own body’s exhaustion.”

His tone was flat, factual—but to Giyuu, the very matter-of-factness of it twisted his gut with confusion. If this demon had truly wanted him dead, why would he waste effort carrying him, guarding him, placing his sword within reach?

“Doctor…?” Giyuu asked hoarsely.

At that cue, Tamayo emerged from the other side of the screen, her expression composed and kind.

“I am Tamayo,” she said softly, bowing her head. “And this is my assistant, Yushiro. We are… not aligned with Muzan Kibutsuji. In truth, we fight against him.”

Giyuu’s grip tightened on his sword. His eyes darted between her, Yushiro—scowling but deferential beside her—and back to Michikatsu, looming silently like a shadow.

“Three demons,” he muttered, his throat dry. Giyuu’s hand trembled on the hilt. “I… should kill you.”

Yushiro bristled instantly. “You’re welcome for saving your ungrateful life—”

Tamayo’s hand on his shoulder silenced him.

Michikatsu, however, tilted his head slightly, regarding Giyuu with a strange calmness. His words were blunt, perhaps unintentionally humorous in their stark honesty:

“You may attempt it, if you wish.”

Giyuu blinked, thrown off.

Michikatsu gestured with a stiff motion of his hand toward the empty space beside the futon where the sword had just been. “It was there. I did not move it. If I sought your death, you would not be speaking.”

It was not arrogance in his tone—it was a simple fact. Almost absurd in its straightforwardness.

And for some reason, that only unsettled Giyuu further than open hostility ever could.

His grip loosened, his arm trembling with fever and doubt. Slowly, hesitantly, he let the blade rest again. His mind raced, the contradiction gnawing at him.

If he wished me dead… he would not wait. He would not give me my weapon. He would not—

Tamayo’s voice broke the silence, calm and gentle. “Water Hashira, I know your mind must be in turmoil. But you are safe here. Please, allow yourself to rest.”

Giyuu’s eyes lingered on Michikatsu. That massive figure who should have been his enemy, yet sat there as still as stone, watching him not with hunger—but with something oddly close to… vigilance.

It made no sense. None at all.

The weight of exhaustion pressed him back into the futon. His eyelids drooped, heavy. His last flicker of thought before slipping back into restless slumber was not a clear conclusion, but a single bewildered question:

Why would a demon hold me so carefully, if all he sought was blood?

Michikatsu’s gaze lingered long after the boy drifted again into fevered dreams.

And though he sat still as stone, the former Upper Moon felt something restless stir within him—a thread of worry, alien and unwelcome, binding him more tightly to the fragile life he had just spared.

*

The silence of the small house was broken only by the quiet bubbling of medicine over a flame. Outside, crickets sang. Inside, the Water Pillar stirred awake once more.

Giyuu's fever had eased slightly under Tamayo’s careful treatment, the gaping wound stitched to safety, but his body still ached as if it had been wrung dry. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the glow of lantern light.

The first sight that greeted him the second time was the same broad, unmoving figure sitting near his futon.

The demon!

Michikatsu’s posture was as rigid as before, his knees folded beneath him, his back perfectly straight. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze never wavered from the Pillar’s resting form.

Giyuu’s hand instinctively twitched toward his sword again.

“Do you intend,” Michikatsu said quietly, voice rumbling like distant thunder, “to grasp your blade every time you wake?”

The blunt question startled Giyuu more than any hostility could have.

His fingers hovered above the hilt. “…Shouldn’t I?”

Michikatsu blinked once. Slowly. His gaze dipped to the katana, then back to Giyuu’s wary face.

“You may,” he said at last, calm, almost indifferent. “It changes nothing. If you decide to strike me down, I will not resist.”

Giyuu’s chest tightened. The demon’s tone was so even, so devoid of challenge, that for a moment he almost felt foolish for bracing against an attack that never came.

Before he could respond, Tamayo stepped in, carrying a small tray of steaming herbs. Her presence eased the air, her expression as gentle as moonlight.

“Please, Hashira-dono,” she said softly, setting the tray down beside him. “Your body is still weak. Drink this before speaking further.”

Giyuu hesitated, but took the cup with both hands, eyes never leaving Michikatsu as he drank. The bitterness of the medicine grounded him, sharp and earthy on his tongue.

Finally, he lowered the cup. His voice was hoarse but firm. “Why did you save me?”

Michikatsu’s answer came without pause, though his delivery was oddly stilted, as if the words resisted forming.

“…Because you would have died.”

“That’s not an answer.” Giyuu’s brows furrowed faintly. His voice was cautious, but insistent. “You’re a demon. I should be your prey.”

At that, Michikatsu’s gaze shifted. Something almost unreadable flickered behind those inhuman eyes—remnants of regret, perhaps, or the faintest echo of weariness centuries old.

“I no longer take humans as prey,” he said at last. His voice was low, heavy with finality. “Not for over a hundred years.”

Yushiro scoffed from the shadows where he stood, arms crossed. “And we’re all just meant to take your word for it, are we? How convenient for you.”

“Yushiro,” Tamayo warned softly.

But Michikatsu did not rise to the boy’s scorn. Instead, he lowered his gaze slightly, an oddly human gesture for a demon of his stature.

“I do not expect trust,” he said quietly. “Only… acknowledgment. That you are alive, where otherwise you would not be.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

Giyuu looked away, his grip on the futon tightening. He hated how uncertain he felt. His instincts screamed that he should cut down any demon in reach. And yet—his body remembered too clearly the sensation of strong arms catching him as he fell, the deliberate act of placing his sword within reach, the strange gentleness of a monster who should have been his executioner.

If he had wanted Giyuu dead, he would be.

Finally, Giyuu exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. His silence radiating a demand of clarity for his last question.

For the first time, Michikatsu hesitated. His lips pressed together, his brows furrowing faintly.

“I do not know,” he admitted, his honesty so blunt it almost sounded awkward. “Perhaps… because I could. Because I chose to.”

The simplicity of the answer almost made Giyuu scoff. But his throat was too dry for laughter.

Tamayo, watching silently until now, spoke gently. “Hashira-dono… Michikatsu Tsugikuni once fought alongside the Demon Slayer Corps. Before Muzan twisted him. He has long since abandoned Muzan’s ranks. That is why he wanders as he does.”

The name made Giyuu stiffen. His sharp gaze flicked back to the demon, studying him anew. “Tsugikuni…? That name is in our records. One of the most skilled swordsmen in history.”

Michikatsu’s eyes lowered, shadow falling over his face. “…That was lifetimes ago. That man… is dead.”

The silence that followed was thick, tense, broken only by the faint rasp of Giyuu’s breath.

And then, unexpectedly, Michikatsu extended a hand toward the small, wrapped bento sitting on a nearby tray. He placed it clumsily at Giyuu’s side, his massive fingers almost too careful for the delicate object.

“…This is yours,” he said awkwardly.

Giyuu blinked at it, nonplussed. “…What.”

“It was given to me,” Michikatsu explained, his tone as stiff as a soldier’s report. “I cannot eat such things. It seemed… better suited to you.”

A long pause.

Yushiro groaned aloud, exasperated. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?”

But Tamayo’s lips curved faintly, hiding the hint of a smile behind her sleeve.

Giyuu stared at the bento, then back at the demon. His chest ached with the contradiction of it all—three demons where he should see enemies, yet one had saved his life, another had tended his wounds, and the third, even through sharp words, clearly served the first two.

It still made no sense. Nothing at all.

*

The house had fallen quiet again. Tamayo had gone to prepare more medicine, and Yushiro lingered outside on watch, muttering about ungrateful swordsmen and suspicious demons.

Within the room, only two figures remained.

Giyuu sat upright on the futon, his back pressing lightly against the wall. His fever had dulled, though exhaustion still dragged at his limbs. The faint glow of a single lantern painted the room in amber and shadow.

Across from him, Michikatsu sat motionless, as though carved from stone. His human guise—the tired but composed face of a wanderer—seemed strangely at odds with the quiet intensity in his gaze.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence stretched, taut and uncertain.

But Tamayo’s words lingered in Giyuu’s mind. "Michikatsu Tsugikuni once fought alongside the Demon Slayer Corps. Before Muzan twisted him."

At last, Giyuu broke the silence, his voice low but steady.

“…Earlier. Tamayo said you were once part of Muzan’s ranks.” His sharp blue eyes locked on the demon across from him. “What did she mean by that?”

Michikatsu did not answer immediately. His hands tightened faintly on his knees, as though bracing against a storm.

Then, with a slow breath, he closed his two human eyes.

When they opened again, he was no longer the wandering man Giyuu had seen. His complexion drained of color, pale as bone beneath the lantern light. Two additional pairs of eyes surfaced upon his face, long lashes casting shadows that deepened the hollows of his features. His long, dark hair shifted faintly, loose and wild.

The lantern’s glow trembled across the grotesque beauty of his true form.

And when the middle set of eyes opened fully, Giyuu’s breath caught.

There, etched into the irises, were kanji characters. Upper Moon One.

But struck through. Deliberately, as if branded with denial.

The Water Pillar’s hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his blade. His heart thundered in his chest, dread spiking through his veins. Upper Moon One…! The most powerful of Muzan’s elite. The rank that stood at the very pinnacle of his enemies.

And yet—he still lived.

He realized then with startling clarity: if this demon had truly been hostile, if this monster had meant harm, he would not be breathing long enough to even feel fear.

The futon rustled faintly as Giyuu’s grip faltered on his sword. His thoughts spun, tangled between horror, disbelief, and the fragile thread of gratitude he could not deny.

Across from him, Michikatsu lowered his head. The edge in his voice was gone, replaced with something quieter, almost hollow.

“My name as a demon,” he said, the syllables heavy with centuries of weight, “was Kokushibou.”

The name filled the small room like smoke, suffocating in its infamy.

Giyuu’s breath trembled. Kokushibou. The legend whispered in the Corps’ oldest records. The shadow that haunted generations of slayers and the blade that struck down the Oyakata-sama of his time.

And here he was—sitting in silence across from him, not striking, not devouring, but admitting.

The lantern flickered.

For the first time in a long while, Giyuu did not know whether to draw his blade… or to simply listen.